Page 10 of Bite
But then I think about the passive-aggressive text from my landlord warning me of my looming rent deadline, which he already extended twice. I think of my empty fridge, and the way my stomach curled when I had to count out change for a pack of ramen last night.
I hitACCEPT.
Within seconds, my phone pings again with a new notification.
Your pickup time is 9:45 PM.
Dress to impress according to Lucien’s preferences: skirt or dress, high heels, red lipstick.
So, I guess I’ve got a little over nine hours to raid my closet for something decent and agonize over whether I’m picking out what I’ll be wearing to earn my rent or meet my demise.
Fantastic.
By the time the sleek black car glides to a stop outside my building, I’m dressed the part of ‘Marilyn’ in a short black skirt, black tights, and high-heeled boots that you can’t even tell came from the clearance bin last season. My hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, my makeup subtle but sharp, lips painted blood red. The bracelet on my wrist feels colder than it did before, my fingers fiddling with the metal band as the driver steps out.
It's a different man this time, but he’s equally as silent and stoic as the last. He comes around to open the back door, looking to me expectantly.
I slide in.
We start off, and the city rushes past in blurred motion, a winter palette of gray skies and steel buildings. My reflection flickers in the tinted window, and I barely even recognize myself.
What the hell am I doing?
Too late to ask that now. I’m already on my way, so I guess I’ll just have to hope like hell I’m about to get paid, not murdered.
When the car pulls up to the address, all I can do is blink out the window as I take it in. The townhouse is all glass and black brick, elegant and modern, perched behind a sleek metal gate that glides open to admit us. The driver parks up front and gets out to open my door, a single camera watching as I step past him to approach the house.
Before I can even knock, the door swings open, my breath catching.
Lucien is even better looking in person.
He stands tall in a charcoal sweater and tailored slacks, barefoot in the comfort of his own home. His eyes are a stormy gray, amused and assessing all at once. He gives me a slow once-over, not leering, but not exactly subtle, either.
“You must be Marilyn,” he says smoothly, voice deep and oddly calming.
“That’s me,” I breathe, glancing up at the gleaming façade of his townhouse. “Nice place.”
He smiles faintly before ushering me inside and closing the door behind me. The house smells faintly of cedar and cigar smoke, and the interior isstunning. Every piece of furniture looks curated, every object has its place. It feels like I’m walking through a showroom, not a private residence.
“Please,” Lucien says, gesturing to a plush white sofa in a room adjacent to the foyer. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I nod numbly and go to take a seat, crossing my legs and clasping my hands together in my lap to keep them from fidgeting. My fingers twitch anyway, my heart pounding at a chaotic rhythm.
Lucien disappears for a moment, then returns with two crystal tumblers and a bottle of vodka so expensive it doesn’t even have a label. He sets them down on the glass coffee table and pours us both a drink, offering one to me like this is a date.
It isn’t, but I still take the drink.
He sinks down onto the sofa beside me, a little too close for comfort. Then again, I’m not sure what’s considered appropriate behavior in this situation– I’m so out of my depth here that I don’t even know which way is up.
I take a sip from the glass, the vodka burning its way down my throat and loosening something in my chest. Then I take another. It helps with the nerves, albeit marginally.
Lucien watches me with hooded eyes, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. “First time?” he asks.
I nod, my throat tightening. “That obvious?”
His smile sharpens a little, but not unkindly. “Most first-timers are more nervous.”
“I’m doing great, then,” I chuckle uncomfortably.
